The Hunter
"Dead. Three more dead," Doc muttered to himself, pulling his fishing cap forward to shade his eyes from the blazing sun. A rim of snow-white hair bushed out in back. He climbed over the corral fence to check the damage.
"Bloody mess," he said, lifting a sheep's head and noting the gashes and deep puncture wounds in its neck. "That no good predator has jaws like steel."
Doc shoveled dirt into the hole under the fence, stomping the dirt into place. He would finish that job later. Right now he had to skin out the dead sheep and get the carcasses to the animal dump, before the putrid smell attracted scavengers.
Wiping his forehead, he started toward the house. He pulled off his waders, laid them beside the rest of his fishing gear on the back porch, and hurried inside to phone his old friend, Cecil.
"Cec, I hate to disappoint you, but I can't fish today. That's right. Three more. Damned if I know! I thought I could make a little money off these sheep, too. Nope. It's all over for these three. Yeah, I sure could use your help, if you can spare the time."
Doc downed a quick glass of water and popped a six-pack of Coors into the refrigerator for later.
Striding into his makeshift doctor's office, he retrieved his glasses from the top drawer of the medical cabinet. The heads of a wild boar and a mountain lion hung above the examining table. He had taken his prized elk and deer heads down to the basement a few months back. "Can't afford losing any more of my few remaining patients," he'd told Cecil. "Damn those environmentalists, anyway."
Doc stared into the mirror above the sink. A tired, rumpled face stared back at him. "It's hell getting old," he said. Adjusting his glasses, he stretched out his arms, palms down, and watched carefully. His hands barely twitched. Satisfied, he stepped behind the screen separating his office from his hobbies and unlocked his walnut gun cabinet. Where was his shotgun? Well, his Winchester 22 semi-automatic would have to do. Rummaging through the pile of tanned hides, he located a piece of outing flannel and dusted off the rifle. Squinting down the length of the barrel, he curled his finger around the trigger.
The screen door slammed. "Anybody home?" a voice cried out.
Laying his rifle on top of the hides, Doc hurried back into the kitchen. A loud bark startled him.
"Thanks for coming, Cec. Hi, Midnight!" Doc said, patting the huge mongrel's head. The dog whined and licked one of its coal-black paws. Doc gently lifted the forepaw. "Seems to be a bit of an infection here, Cec."
"He has been favorin' it some."
"I'll take a closer look later," Doc promised, curling his arm around his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry. He'll be fine."
"Thanks. Since Agnes died, he's the only family I've got. I expect you know how that is."
"Yeah."
"Well, Doc," Cecil said, kneeling down and rumpling Midnight's ears, "what say you and I get to work? If it's okay by you, I'd just as soon leave Midnight here till we get back."
"Good idea." Doc filled a bowl with water and set it on the floor. "Here, Boy. Not much cooler inside than out, I'm afraid."
On the way out the door, Doc picked up his Buck skinning knife. "No point in letting the hides go to waste."
"Nope, not when they're still fresh," Cecil agreed.
They dragged the first sheep from the corral and hung it up on a clothesline holder nearby, where Doc did all his skinning. Doc made the first incision, the knife gliding in a straight line up the sheep's stomach.
"If I didn't know any better," Cecil said, "I'd say you were a mighty fine surgeon."
The corners of Doc's mouth turned up just a hair. "Oh, you would, would you?"
Taking hold of the edge of the hide, Doc pulled it back, exposing the fine white fascia that held the hide to the sheep. Slipping his sharp knife between the hide and the flesh, he held his finger on the blade, pushing and stroking to cut away the white tissue without nicking the fleece. That done, he pushed his knee hard against the hide. Pulling the sheepskin off, he handed the pelt to Cecil.
"Tell you what," Doc said. "I want you to have these hides, and I won't take no for an answer."
"Well, I don't know."
"How does this sound. If I can skin the other two in less than three minutes each, and if you don't find any holes in the hides, they're yours. If I take longer than three minutes, or if you find holes, I'll give you ten bucks per hole, and I'll keep the skins. Deal?"
"Well, okay," Cecil agreed, setting the timer on his stopwatch.
"How did I do?" Doc asked, when he had finished the skinning.
"Under three minutes both times," Cecil said, shaking his head, "and it don't look like you'll be owing me a cent."
"Good enough. Now let's finish the job."
"Hoisting these dead sheep into the back of my pickup's a struggle," Doc said. "Cec, why don't you grab the front feet. I'll grab the back feet. That's it. Now let's sling it onto the truck bed."
"One down, two to go," Cecil said.
"Damn," Doc said. "If I weren't such a decrepity old fool, I'd dig a hole and shove these carcasses into it, instead of paying to get rid of them."
Perspiration rolled down Doc's back. His shirt stuck to his skin. Flies swarmed around his face. Both men strained to maintain their balance as they heaved the last stiff carcass onto the truck.
"Twelve so far. Twelve sheep dead," Doc reminded Cecil as the pickup rumbled to the dump.
"You think maybe the coyotes are getting to them? The Armstrongs lost several chickens night before last."
"Could be. I can tell you one thing, though," Doc continued, looking back at the dead sheep. "There aren't going to be any more, not even if I have to keep watch all night."
After his friend left, Doc combed through the garage, looking for his traps. If he could find one of his old coyote traps, that just might work. Once the animal stepped on the trigger, releasing the spring, he thought, those metal teeth would snap together, and he'd have that bloodthirsty sheep killer exactly where he wanted him.
"Wouldn't you know," he said, when he finally found the trap, "no stake-down chain. Well, I'll fix that."
Doc attached a length of wire to the spring to replace the missing chain. Stopping by the corral, he drove a nail into a tree branch and wrapped the wire around the nail. Then he placed the trap so that it abutted the fence at the same spot that had been dug up the night before. Pressing his foot on the outer lips of the trap to set the trigger, he added a thin layer of leaves and dust for camouflage and laid a hunk of mutton behind the trigger.
"Never knew an animal yet that could resist fresh bait," he said. That done, he retrieved his rifle and settled himself into his favorite chair on the porch. He could hear everything.
A meadowlark called in the distance. Doc whistled back. Soon, with the sinking of the sun, the white crisscross fence took on an orange glow. A cool breeze washed over him, and the dew brought out the sweet smell of sage, unnoticed during the busy day. Crickets chirped, frogs croaked. Doc struggled to stay awake. He rubbed his eyes and sat upright. Before long, his head drooped until his chin rested on his neck. His rifle slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor.
"Damn!" he said. "No point in staying out here. The sheep will let me know when trouble comes."
Stretching fully clothed across the bed, his rifle beside him, for a long while Doc slept. A loud yip and bleating awakened him. He fumbled for his glasses, grabbed his gun, and raced outside.
In the darkness Doc could see something jumping wildly, trying to free itself from the steel jaws that held it. I'm in big trouble, he thought. Looks like I got me a wolf, and that nail I used as a stake can't possibly hold!
Quickly, he pulled the bolt back to cock the rifle, shouldered it. Trying to get a bead on the leaping shape without endangering his sheep, he circled around and around, aiming for a clear shot. No luck. Steady. Stay calm, he reminded himself. Get close enough for a head shot. Doc sucked in air and held his breath. Jerking free of the trap that held its paw, the animal lunged at him. Doc blinked to clear his blurring vision. Felt the pressure of his finger against the trigger. Squeezed. A tuft of hair puffed out along the animal's skull. The large black hulk crashed to the ground.
Doc moved closer. He saw a pink swathe along the length of its head, but no blood."Damn!" he yelled.
The enraged animal turned and sprang, its monstrous mouth wide open. Doc fired, and fired again. His second bullet smashed through that gaping mouth and shattered the predator's skull.
Doc dropped his rifle, rushed to the dead animal, and, crouching down, rolled it over.
"Oh, no!" he muttered, shaking his head. "I was afraid of this. Better find my shovel and start digging."
Two days later Doc hovered over his kitchen sink, cleaning a mess of trout caught earlier that morning during his solitary fishing trip.
"Anybody home?" a familiar voice called.
"Come on in, Cec."
Out of the corner of his eye, Doc watched Cecil plod into the kitchen and slump into a chair.
"You look terrible. What's happening, friend?"
"Midnight's gone, Doc. Has been for a couple of days. You haven't seen him today, have you?"
The filleting knife in Doc's hand barely flicked. "Nope," he said, "not today, Cec."
~Mary Chandler
© Copyright 2001 by Mary Chandler.
Next Story[ home ] [ contents ] [ contact us ] [ newsletter ] [ search ] [ site map ]
© 2001-2003 by Mercury Books, an imprint of Cayuse Press.
All Rights Reserved.